Wednesday, November 26, 2008

C. Romaní, in the Confitería Jockey Club, Buenos Aires...holding forth. His central European presence, verging on Bucharest, hair parted down the middle, Brecht-like but convivial. A dark shirt and tie, wire-rimmed glasses, of middle years, delighted to be singing for us, as he takes his place in front of the applique flagstone hearth, sports tv, and all the other paraphernalia of a more modern age...

Charming, his finger in the air to emphasize the meaning and cadence of a phrase. Sense of theater--always--but smiling in a personal way--again, his delight. An art, a craft, a souvenir...

Friday, November 21, 2008

Jimmy Schuyler in New York--the Chelsea Hotel, his final port of call. Morning arrives on West 23rd Street, inimitably, in glimpses...

Or an early French anarchist-- Èmile Armand--described as "un del activistes libertaris més coneguts i populars de la seva època, especialment en els cercles àcrates iligats a l'eclecticisme, el naturisme, el vegetarianisme i les opcions comunitàries de vida." Not even sure just which laguage this comes through in--maybe Catalán--or Langdoc, the old tongue, voices of the south, born in stone...

Thursday, November 20, 2008

"Life, friends, is boring..." John Berryman, following the events of the day. Or the Russians, perhaps. "Skuchno na etom stvetye, gospoda," a phrase remembered from harder times--Gogol', that is-- "It's a dreary world, gentlemen." My stock-holders--note the possessive--wagging the dog of the tail. Entering into trouble--theirs as well our own.

The meaning of all feelings--on the table, as it were. As they should be. A place setting, silver, polished crystal, faceted glass. The accoutrements of another life. Professor Sinigaglia--Marcello Mastroianni to us--sent to organize the factory workers of Torino in a late 19th century winter. I Compagni...

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Figure of Carl, large and homey--but homey with a purpose, making his way up to the podium. Room prepared with kinte cloth tables, large borrowed plant in corner, lights low, the rows of chairs, packed and anticipatory, brimming, buzzing--musicians up front, string bass, drums, arch-top jazz guitar, making their relaxed and experimental way through all the changes. All the changes--yes, and what we're up against. The Earth, the City and the Hidden Narrative of Race. What it might mean to call each other brother--to call each other sister--to reach out, to join, to see...

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Northern Italian winter, December light in the Dolomiti, over the Brenner pass in a broken-down car, muddy wipers working away, straight arrow of the Öesterreichs Autobahnen giving way to total latinate curves... Bressanone, Chiusa, Bolzano--even the names...

Friday, November 14, 2008

14 November 2008. Attentive autumn sun. Young Paul--the neighbor's son, his short pants and school satchel, miniature confident stride. Spotting me up the driveway: "Is your name morning...?" An original question. Asopposed to Santa Barbara college girl, seeking radio words to describe a Santa Ana fire: "It was like super super smokey..."

Or maybe all speech...

Theatricality and sincerity. Anthony's note: A Dylan poseur on a London stage...

And yet Gauguin, his ageless young women, side by side, breast to breast, their shoulders melding... The musical figures in Titian's Fete Champetre--each one turned to the other's light...

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Words. More so and more so--crusader castles on a Levantine shore--each stone labeled and numbered--reconstructable, according to plan... A small Roman cursive "r", or an "l"...the loopy wandering of forms, each one bent to signification. Civilization's tool, from the get-go. Counting sheep with knotted twine--another knot, another month's reward. Sustenance, an absolute...

And yet...

Edward Krasinski--lone figure on stubbly hill, narrow, carved against the light--an arc of crooked wire--dangling spools, or cups, or cans--some small thing, mankind's impediments--chains of meaning, marking the impossible, yes, but there it is--as in a sentence, or a song...

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Europa and beyond. A stiff pose, borrowed from some unknown queen, pretending in turn--Velasquez, Goya, Chardin--turning away from furrowed fields in a spate of pride--to rule--her unholy tiara, all stolen jewels...

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

12 November 2008. Gray morning with pearly fringes. (Can a morning have fringes?) Isolate crow, minding his own affairs on school yard black-top just across the way...

Agitando Pañuelos, echt Argentino. The image of Carlos Romaní, holding forth in the Confitería Jockey Club, Martinez, Buenos Aires. Both theatrical and sincere in the very same breath. Here transposed to a veranda in Palermo ... Could be anywhere, really, the combination of languid air, burgeoning plants... Hands held at one's side--or in a pocket--evidence of a confident command--leisure and purpose... a touch more the former...

Monday, November 10, 2008

10 November 2008. Sun at dawn, clouds moving in. Yesterday: a solitary crow hopping from curb to street--morning light. Or Lila and her husband, sitting together side by side on low Nepalese bench (its legs still wrapped in shipping paper) positioned at the very front of their doorway...backs to the sun, drinking tea...

Warszawa, 1968, appearing miraculously under the name Hanna Ptaszkowska. The Galeria Foksal, with Henryk Stazewski propped on the floor, holding forth to a gathering of young people. That's Hanna herself, just behind, and Prorok (Prophet), the leader of a group (the only group?) of Polish hippies, his rabbit pelt vest--an investment in the era. Unknown girl to his right, too tall for Gabryela. Likewise the gaunt type leaning on edge of door. Myself, with pipe, tip of rapidograph pen, drawing...

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Yesterday's waves--of smiles, of tears. A thousand young people charging up and down nighttime streets. "I just had to go outside... A big crowd came round the corner--hundreds of students, everyone running--and I said to myself, well why not...?"

Meg, downstairs, early yesterday morning: Yes it IS a beautiful day... Ehren, too, once a marine, weeping...

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

4 November 2008. A clear dawn after heavy rain--sun and wet birch leaves, glistening...moments of hope...

Her dark hair, falling, falling, a mountain, falling over tables and chairs, present and past--evaporating even the most absolute... Grand-sized sheets of black paper with tiny bits of white attached--spread everywhere--crummy napkin traces, touches of greenish ink--a residue of the world known--the world adamant and still. A mountain, stop in the Tahachapis, also dawn--franchise chain--tables hard and unrewarding, but there, as in THERE, as in THERE...

About Me

The painter Anthony Dubovsky was born in San Diego, California, in 1945. He studied with Willard Midgette at Reed College, and has lived in Warsaw, Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, and Jerusalem. "An exploration in which the goal becomes a part of the discovery..." You can reach him at anthonydubovsky.com